


and i'm reaching out my hand

by hotmesslewis



Series: Lewis and Clark - Reincarnation [2]
Category: Lewis and Clark
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, I Was Always So Fond of This One, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 16:03:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12136029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotmesslewis/pseuds/hotmesslewis
Summary: Part 2 of the Reincarnation series.  The aftermath of a moment, and some explanations.





	and i'm reaching out my hand

There was a long, lazy silence after the kiss.

Then all hell broke loose.

“BILLY!”

It was the bottle-blonde, of course, with the righteous fury of God himself.

The two men scrambled to their feet.

The bar was crowded with the voices of the three talking over each other.

“Julia, please—”

“How _could_ you—”

“But I—”

“ ‘How could _he_ ,’ you little—”

“Ensign Lewis, stand down.”

“Billy, I’m waiting!”

“The name is Meriwether.”

“Of course; old habits die—”

“Billy! Don’t you have _anything_ —”

“He kissed _me_ —”

“You called me ‘ensign.’ ”

“—do you even _know_ him—”

“Please, let me explain—”

“—the man you were just _sucking face_ with—”

“Oh, I’ll show you ‘sucking face,’ blondie—”

“Meriwether, don’t— Julia, please listen—”

_Julia._

“Julia.”

“Yes?” The blonde whipped her head around, her hair swinging about her shoulders.

Meriwether took a deep breath and asked the question. “Julia . . . Hancock?”

“ _Yes._ ” She looked at Meriwether, bewildered, then turned to Bill Clark. “Who is this man?” Bill’s shrug was vague, so Julia turned back to Meriwether and hurled her words at him. “Who _are_ you?”

He swept into a low bow and took her hand, touching her fingers to his lips without kissing them. “Meriwether Lewis, madam, at your service.”

The couple looked at him blankly. Clearly he expected his name to mean something to them, but they didn’t know what. Julia Hancock jerked her hand away.

Meriwether Lewis sat down in a chair and laughed, long, loud, hard, like he hadn’t laughed in years. Through the laughter, he pointed at Julia and managed to choke out, “You’re ruining my life. And you don’t even know who I am.”

He cracked up again, beating his fist on the tabletop.

They watched him for a few moments longer before Bill had the courage to ask him again, “Are you okay?” The question was slower this time, and the concern behind it was different.

Meriwether held up a hand and gasped it out. “Let me catch my breath.” A moment later, when he was finally breathing normally again, Meriwether spoke again. “Okay. You don’t know who I am. Fine.” He looked at them seriously, then snorted and broke into a smile. “But do you know who _you_ are?”

Julia stepped back slightly, letting Bill answer the madman.

“Bill Clark. Julia Hancock.”

“Yes, of course, William Clark, Julia Hancock, I know that. But do you know who you _are_. Who you were, that might be the better question.”

Julia prodded Bill, poking him in the back with a finger.

“. . . no?”

“Oh, god, this is too good. Much too good.” Meriwether looked between the two faces, and he saw—the trappings were different, his haircut, her makeup, but the faces were exactly the same. “Julia Hancock. William _Clark_. And you don’t even know who you are.”

“Who are we? Or, uh, were we?” Bill was curious, at least, and taking him seriously. Julia shook her head at her boyfriend and mouthed _no_ , as though she wasn’t in full sight of Meriwether.

Meriwether looked between the two faces again in something like wonder and made up his mind. “If you want to know, ditch the girl.”

-

When he was fifteen years old, Meriwether Lewis had a conversation with his mother about fate.

“Do you think . . . that it has to be? How it was, I mean. That all the things, all the bits of our lives will end up the same, no matter what?”

Lucy Meriwether Lewis-Marks smiled sadly at her son, sitting on the other end of the couch, and then she pulled him into her arms and smoothed his unruly curls. Surprisingly, her usually surly teenaged son didn’t resist, not even when she softly kissed the top of his head. “Oh, of course not, honey. You want to know what I think?” He nodded, silently. “I think that’s why we’re here. Why we got to come back. To make sure that things aren’t the same.”

“Really?”

“Really and truly.”

“Oh.” Meriwether was thoughtful.

“Of course, your father thought differently.”

“He did?” Meriwether sat up straighter, pulling slightly from his mother’s arms to study her. It wasn’t often that his mother mentioned his father, let alone talked about him. Meriwether barely remembered the man, himself—he had been five when his father died.

Lucy sighed and gathered herself from the sofa, walking to the basket full of clothes fresh from the clothesline. If she was going to talk about her first husband, she better have something to do with her hands. Meriwether pulled his feet up onto the sofa and hugged his legs to his chest, resting his chin on his knee and watching his mother fold the laundry.

“Your father was a good man, but a sad one, and even more so when he figured out who he was, who I was, who you would be. He read every possible book about you, and William, and even Mr. Jefferson, because he wanted to know all about you. He was so proud of you, Meriwether, of the man you became, then, of the man he was sure you’d become now. So proud. It actually,” Lucy stopped for a moment to steady her voice, wiping irritably at a damp eye with the tips of her fingers, “it actually was very nice, really, because he missed out on so much of your life the first time around. But then, the books and all the stories, that meant he got to see the man his son would become after his death, and it’s a rare gift that a man gets the privilege to see something like that, you know?

“But there was something horrible in that, too, the fact that he could see how your life turned out after he died.

“See, he thought you became the man you were, or would become the man that you did, _because_ he died when you were just a child.

“He believed too much in fate, I suppose. He wanted to you to become the man that you will be, Meriwether, the great, courageous man but he thought that he had to die for you to become the Meriwether Lewis that I know you will be, the Meriwether Lewis of the past. He didn’t understand how it could be possible for you to be that man if he lived. And so he . . . he committed suicide.”

“Mom . . . Dad died of pneumonia.” Those were his clearest memories of his father—the man, weak in the hospital bed, holding his hand and promising him everything would be all right with the saddest smile in the world. His father telling him how very proud he was of Meriwether Lewis, his son.

Lucy didn’t attempt to stop the tears now, but she spoke through them. “He did. He did die of pneumonia, actually a good month later than he had hoped. Because, do you know what that idiot, that mad idiot did?” In spite of the tears, Lucy laughed slightly, but it was the helpless laugh of a woman who didn’t know what else to do. “The damn fool tried to recreate his death. Seriously. He got a horse—I don’t even know where he got the horse, but he got one—and he rode it through the damn river in the middle of the winter, and he came home, soaking wet and hoping to get sick from it. And he did, but he didn’t die so soon as he wanted too, and after a couple of weeks I couldn’t stand it any more and I made him go to the hospital. And you know what he did there? He refused treatment.”

Meriwether looked at his mother, horrified. “He _refused_ treatment?”

Lucy nodded, and didn’t seem to know whether to laugh or cry. “See, Meriwether? He chose his death. He may as well have killed himself.”

“Did you love him at all?” The question slipped out before he could think to stop it.

His mother set down the towel she had been folding, crossed her arms, and looked at her son seriously for a moment. “I know that I did, once. I _know_ I did. But . . . I think you learn to fall out of love with someone who would choose to leave you.”

Meriwether felt cold.

“Thank God, you’ve always been so much stronger than your father was,” his mother said with false brightness, turning back to her laundry.

Lucy Meriwether Lewis-Marks never had accepted that her son killed himself.

Even though, now, he could have told her exactly what it felt like, pulling the trigger, feeling the bullet bury itself inside of him, he chose not to. He didn’t want to break her heart.

It was nice, having someone who believed in you.

Besides, he wanted her to love him just a little bit longer.

-

Meriwether Lewis thought about fate as he and Bill Clark climbed into his car at the bar, after Bill sent his girlfriend home in his rusting old pick-up.

“I can find my own way home,” Bill promised her.

“I’m not gay.” That was the first thing that Bill had said to Meriwether when they were alone together.

“Okay.”

“I mean, I know I kissed you back, but—”

“It’s okay. It was the moment, I understand. Just the moment.”

The drove in silence, and Meriwether Lewis wondered what he had hoped for from this man.

Or maybe he knew.

Meriwether Lewis had loved William Clark.

He loved him in a way that defied the mere word itself, that was something bigger and more powerful than it.

And there was some lust, too. He could be honest with himself about that, now, at least. He’d spent years of his life (his old life, his first life) pining for the man, and years of this one doing the same. He’d spent long nights by his side, before, he’d seen him sleeping and dressing and laughing and in pain. He’d longed for him, and thought about how his body would feel, even as he fought off the “unnaturalness” of these thoughts.

Then and now, Meriwether Lewis wanted William Clark, even though he lied and told himself that he didn’t.

He’d always assumed that his William Clark would feel the same way, loving him but stunted by the world they lived in.

Apparently he was wrong.

But there was something more than that, too.

He expected . . .

He expected William Clark to complete him.

That was just how this should work.

Lewis and Clark.

They were inseparable; it was impossible to think of one without the other because there was no _point_ to one without the other.

Right?

Wasn’t that how the story went?

Or maybe his mother was right. Maybe they were here again to change their fates. Maybe this time around, Lewis and Clark would stand alone.

But then, Meriwether Lewis had always sympathized more with his father’s inclinations.

“I know a place where we can be alone.” He could feel Bill looking at him from the passenger’s seat. “Just to talk, that’s all. You need to understand.”

Bill nodded. “Okay.”

The place Meriwether had in mind was an old barn on his mother’s land. It had long since passed the days of usefulness for its original purpose and was now used for storage, housing old furniture and boxes of clothes and childhood toys instead of horses, hay, and farm equipment. Because of the more delicate nature of some of the memories, Lucy had heat and air conditioning installed in the barn, climate-controlling it; because she suspected that her wayward son Meriwether used it as a private retreat at times, she kept the lights in working order, as well. The old blue corduroy sofa was worn to the perfect state of comfort, and with a couple of clean blankets and a few snacks, it was quite cozy, really.

Meriwether thought of it as his home, and he was proud of it.

He had barely pulled the big barn door shut behind them and barred it shut when Bill jumped him, pushing the curve of his back into the bar and kissing him desperately.

“I thought you weren’t gay,” Meriwether managed to gasp when Bill stopped a moment for breath.

“I’m not,” Bill replied, his lips sucking at Meriwether’s jaw and trailing down his neck. “But you—you appeal to me. I want you.”

Words he thought he’d never hear, not in two lifetimes. He gripped Bill’s t-shirt, pulling him closer, relishing the warmth of this perfect man’s perfect body against his own. “Do you . . . do you know who we are, then?”

That gave Bill the briefest moment of pause, but he shook it off, grabbing the smaller man’s ass to pull his hips closer to his own. “Does it really matter who we are? Who we were, I mean, whatever.”

_Did it matter?_

Yes. It mattered.

It mattered a hell of a lot.

But Bill hands were at Meriwether’s waistband, fumbling with the hem of Meriwether’s shirt, yanking it over Meriwether’s head, and then he was touching his bare chest with something like wonder and pulling off his own shirt and pressing their chests together, rubbing down on him and sucking on his tongue and Meriwether Lewis had to wonder if it really did matter all that much after all.

Bill backed them to the couch and pulled Meriwether on top of him, looking at him seriously.

“I’ve never been with a man before.”

Neither had Meriwether, but he had never been with a woman, either. Not that he was going to tell a man like Bill Clark that he was twenty years old and still a virgin.

“Hell, I’ve never even had a one-night stand before.”

Ah. Well, that put things into perspective, didn’t it?

But Meriwether Lewis could live with that, being Bill Clark’s one great one-night stand, loved and left, and then he could get on with his fate. He wondered if it was even possible to bungle suicide as badly as he had the first time, but, hey, he would do it or die trying, he thought darkly. He’d be fifteen years too soon, but what was the sense of waiting fifteen years more without William Clark in his life.

“Meriwether Lewis, you must have some kind of charm, because I’ve _never_ felt like this before.”

The hands that were playing with the button on his jeans were very distracting. Bill’s eyes were so deep hazel, looking into them felt like getting lost in the woods.

“I thought you wanted to talk. I thought that you wanted to understand.”

Bill broke the gaze then. “I changed my mind. I think I want this more.”

And Meriwether saw his fear, and he knew why Bill had changed his mind, and that was enough to stop him from going any further.

He pulled his body off the redhead’s and rolled back, sitting on the arm of the couch, facing Bill. “No. You need to understand.”

“No, but—” Bill tried to reach for his hands, tried to pull Meriwether back to him, but Meriwether resisted.

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

Bill answered without thinking. “Because I’m scared.”

“That’s because you already know, don’t you?”

He ran a hand through his thick red hair. “I think so. It’s not something I really ever thought about seriously before—I mean, there was the coincidence of the name, _William Clark_ , but come on, those are both pretty common names. And then, just things I couldn’t understand. Memories I didn’t have a place for.” He looked up, into Meriwether’s face. “Memories of you.”

“They’re all back, did you know that? It’s not just me and you, it’s . . . it’s everyone. Jefferson, Hamilton, the Adamses, Burr, even.”

“But it _can’t_ be true.”

“It is.” Meriwether reached for Bill’s hand and clasped it in a brotherly gesture, palm to palm, thumbs circling each other. It meant love and comfort. It was how they used to touch each other. “I’m scared, too, if it helps any.”

“You are?” Bill looked into his eyes so innocently, so expectantly, that Meriwether laughed lightly.

“Yeah. I am.”

They were quiet for a while, Meriwether simply holding the hand of the man he loved and enjoying his company ( _this_ , it was starting to feel like the completeness he longed for, and it quelled his restlessness in some way), Bill lost deep in thought and staring at their joined hands.

Then he pulled away.

“No.”

“What?” If he was scared before, it was nothing to the fear that Meriwether Lewis felt now.

“No. Just . . . no. This can’t be true.” Bill stood up from the couch and paced a path to the door and back. “None of this can be true.”

“But it _is_.”

“But it _can’t_ be. I refuse to believe it.”

“That doesn’t stop it from being true, Bill.”

“Yeah? Yeah, well, maybe it doesn’t, but it stops me from having to live it.” He grabbed his shirt up from the floor, untwisting it, pulling it over his head. “It stops me from having to watch you—”

“It stops you from having to watch me do what?”

Bill looked at him coldly, as if he were a stranger. “Nothing. Never mind.”

He strode to the door, but Meriwether was there, at his elbow, holding him back. “You can stay the night, you know. Nothing has to happen, but you can just . . . stay with me. Just stay.”

But Bill was already fumbling around for his cell phone. “Nah, it’s fine. I can call a taxi.” He ran his eyes over Meriwether one last time, his eyes lingering on the way Meriwether’s neck curved into his shoulder, the way Meriwether’s jeans sat on his trim hips. “I really shouldn’t stay.”

Three steps out the door, when he was fully in the dark, he turned back and asked Meriwether Lewis a question. “What happens to us? Them, I mean. What happened to them?”

Meriwether swallowed, studied his worn boots, and answered. “William Clark and Julia Hancock got married. They lived together in every appearance of wedded bliss for the rest of her life, and had five children together.”

Bill was glad that Meriwether couldn’t see his face. “And what happened to Meriwether Lewis?”

He looked up, then. “Meriwether Lewis committed suicide, alone at a cabin on the Natchez Trace. He was thirty-five and he thought his best friend, William Clark, was coming to save him.”


End file.
